


home is where the heart is (and that's with you)

by crimsvn



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Short One Shot, fallen angel!dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 16:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsvn/pseuds/crimsvn
Summary: Dream never quite remembered his fall from grace in his waking hours, but his nightmares always make certain to serve as a reminder, he had come to find.Or, Dream wakes up from a nightmare, and George is there to comfort him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 177





	home is where the heart is (and that's with you)

**Author's Note:**

> just a little hurt/comfort because why not :)

Dream never quite remembered his fall from grace in his waking hours, but his nightmares always make certain to serve as a reminder, he had come to find.

Though, it’s less of a memory and more of a  _ feeling.  _ A terrible, terrible sentiment that burned like a hot iron against his skin, like he was being ripped apart, limb by limb, trying to scream but his throat was too raw, his lungs too empty. It’s a horrible sensation—Dream never remembers names, or faces, or the place it happened or the place he fell. It’s only pain that sears his bones, marks his mind.

It wouldn’t be the first time that he woke up in a cold sweat, sitting upwards with so much force he knocked what remaining air he had out of him. Dream’s chest heaves and he panics, engulfed by darkness in a room that couldn’t possibly be his own. This was Earth. He did not belong here.

But then he reaches back to reassure himself that the snow-white, feathered wings that had once marked him as celestial still remained on the contrary to his dreams—though he feels nothing but empty space and gnarled scars, and is reminded that his nightmares were derived from a place of truth. Of the past. And suddenly Dream doesn’t know where he is anymore.  _ Who  _ he is.

Dream flinches when a warm hand is pressed against his bare back, against where his skin had just felt aflame, below where a nonexistent weight pulled between his shoulder blades. 

“Dream,” a voice—so familiar yet oh-so foreign—whispers from beside him. “You’re alright. I’m here.”

Dream wants to speak, wants to choke out any words he can to ask just one of the many questions that float around his head, but his voice stays glued to his throat, unmoving. Unwilling. He’s frozen in place, heart pounding against his chest as he tries to make out his surroundings in the low light, but his vision is blurred by welling tears threatening to spill.

“Hey,” the voice whispers again. The hand migrates from his lower back up to his shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze. “Can you tell me where you are?”

It’s an odd question, Dream thinks, but the voice seems sure about asking it. Dream shakes his head, unable to place the room in which he had been laid in bed, swaddled by blankets that now pooled at his waist. An idea of  _ home  _ creeps into his senses, but his answer does not form on his tongue, nor does it meet the space he exists in. Dream still has yet to peek back at whoever it was that sat beside him.

The hand then travels to the nape of Dream’s neck, and fingers push through tangled hair, messy from an unenjoyable sleep. “Alright then,” the voice hums softly. “Do you know who I am?”

It was only then, prompted by the question, did Dream crane his neck to see the owner of the voice, the hand, the warm presence. Of solace.

Even in the darkness of the room, Dream can recognize understanding eyes, and an expression that screams  _ home.  _ He’s all sharp edges and pale skin in the sliver of moonlight that shines through curtains, but Dream has never felt more  _ safe. _

A name comes to mind.

“George,” Dream says. His voice is raspy. It doesn’t even feel like his own, but the name feels  _ right,  _ and is proven as such when the man accompanying him smiles. 

“Yeah,” George says. “That’s me.”

A silence falls over them, but it’s a nice quiet, now that Dream’s breathing had slowed to a normal pace, and his skin was no longer being pricked by agonizing memories. But, even so, Dream still does not feel where he’s meant to be. His surroundings tell him he belongs here, in this room, in this bed next to George, now, but his conscience betrays him.

“You’re home, Dream,” George says, as if he could hear the aforementioned’s thoughts. “You’re home, now. I promise.”

“Am I?” Dream asks, though the question is less so for George, and more for himself.  _ Was he home? Truly? _

“You are,” George affirms quietly. “You have been for quite some time now. Here, come here.”

George gestures for Dream to turn, and gently assists him in shifting as to put his back completely to George. Dream isn’t quite sure what the man is aiming to do, but soon the heels of George’s palms are digging into Dream’s back where the thick, ugly scars trail down, beginning to carefully massage the marred skin. The consistent pressure is relieving, calming. 

After a few moments, as George works his way up the length of the scars, Dream’s eyelids flutter shut and his head hangs, lulled back into a light sleep.

The sleep lasts much longer than Dream would anticipate, as the next time he wakes, even though it feels as if no time has passed, the golden glow cast throughout the bedroom tells him otherwise. An arm is draped over his waist, a grounding presence, tethering him to the world he was  _ meant  _ to be a part of, at least now he was. Maybe in a past life, a  _ different  _ life, that would be untrue—but this was his current fate. Set in stone.

Set with George.

Dream thinks, judging by the soft sounds of George’s breathing that he’s still asleep, but then George is pressing featherlight kisses across Dream’s shoulders and upper back, before humming quietly as he buried his nose in the skin, sighing.

Without moving, Dream takes a better look around the room, now. It  _ is  _ his bedroom.  _ It had been for several years now,  _ his brain supplies him with, now that it’s less muddled and cloudy with fear and anguish. This  _ is  _ home. He  _ is  _ home.

Dream just hates that he had to forget it in his distress, in the first place.  _ Home  _ should be an overwhelming feeling compared to a memory he hardly recalls.

George must sense that he’s awake, by the way Dream tenses just as his thoughts begin to float around and knock against his skull once more, no longer contently engulfed by a mind void of thinking and discomfort, blank and unknowing. At peace.

“Are you feeling better now?” George mumbles into Dream’s back. His arm hugs tighter around Dream.

“I’m home,” Dream says, if only to reassure himself. Saying the words out loud only helped to make it seem closer to his reality. It helped to  _ persuade  _ himself of it. “Of course I am.”

George presses another kiss to Dream’s skin, before he slips away and sits up. Dream rolls around to look at him, to admire George. In the sunlight, his eyes are brighter, sharper; one a rich amber, the other a crystal blue. Dream had always loved them—they were almost ethereal in a way that reminded him of his past life, as if they were sent from the heavens as a parting gift, the only taste Dream could get of what once was for the rest of his life. Dream wouldn’t complain, however, if that was the only taste he ever got. 

Now, properly grounded and sure of where and who he was, Dream knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wouldn’t trade George for the world, let alone for the chance to become seraphic once more. Earth is where he belonged.  _ With George  _ was where he belonged.

“You’re staring.” George laughs. 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” Dream smiles. 

George shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not…” he pauses. “It’s sweet. You’re sweet. It lets me know you’re okay.”

Dream furrows his brows. “My staring lets you know I’m alright?”

“Well,” George says. He reaches out a hand and rests it on Dream’s cheek. “It’s in your eyes. When you stare it helps me figure out who's currently behind them.”

The question of  _ what do you mean?  _ rests on Dream’s tongue, and it stays there, as he has a feeling he knows  _ exactly _ what George means by it. He doesn’t like the implication, but it’s an unfortunate reality. Dream couldn’t deny it.

Dream raises his hand to cup George’s, where it still sits on his face. Dream drags a thumb over slender fingers and soft skin. “Could you remind me?”

“Of what?”

“Of… us,” Dream says slowly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “How we…”

George seems to clue in on where Dream was headed. “Of how we met? Of course, yeah, I can do that. Just close your eyes for me.”

Dream happily obliges after pressing a kiss to George’s palm, letting his hand slip back under his pillow as George begins the story, moving to trace nonsensical patterns on Dream’s forehead, brushing away stray hairs as he did so. 

“It was… late,” George starts, as if trying to recall himself how the story went. “I was alone, coming home from work. I remember… crying. And blood. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but there you were, on a park bench. I probably would have passed you had your back not been turned to me, where I could see the mess of cuts that stained your skin.

“It isn’t often I’d bring a stranger home, especially not one shirtless, sobbing in some park and covered in  _ blood— _ but I was tired, and I… I couldn’t just leave you there.” George laughs self-deprecatingly. Somewhere deep within the sound is a hint of fondness, though it’s not great in quantity. “So I invited you to walk home with me. You accepted. I gave you my jacket. We walked back to my apartment.”

Dream hums. “What then?”

“I helped you build a life here,” George recalls, and this time the fondness is prominent. “Still, years later, I’ve never gathered enough from your retellings of what happened to you, that you ended up on that park bench that night, but I’ve learned enough. Once an angel, now fallen. Stuck here on Earth with poor me.”

Dream opens his eyes again to see George peering down at him with a soft, if sad gaze. He smiles at George, and it carries a similar sentiment. “I’d rather be stuck here with you, than up there,” Dream says.

“One day you’ll convince me of it, I’m sure,” George replies. 

Dream props himself up on his elbow, gently nudging George with his knee as he readjusts his position. “I’m serious, George,” he says, adamant. “Sure, here with you I’m not immortal. I’m susceptible to injury and judgement and human error. But you know what  _ you _ gave me, something I would never— _ could  _ never have up there, still with my wings?”

George tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“You gave me a  _ home,”  _ Dream tells him, and it’s so earnest, and full of love. It’s so painfully  _ true  _ that it hurts, but in the best way possible. “No one else could have  _ ever  _ offered me that, not like you have.”

“Home,” George echoes. There’s a mild confusion in his tone, but that is overwhelmed by  _ honour and pride,  _ as if he’d never heard a better word from Dream. “Home?”

“Yes.” Dream nods, with all the confidence and love in the world. “Home.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/crimsvn2)!


End file.
